


Like love or lemonade

by Ferrera



Series: Like love or lemonade [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 20:21:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17393075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrera/pseuds/Ferrera
Summary: Dean doesn't blame anyone.





	Like love or lemonade

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Reunion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12780180) by [deadlybride](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride). 



> I haven't posted anything on here for almost a year, been working on a couple fics since forever, but I recently read deadlybride’s [Full House of Wincest](https://archiveofourown.org/series/876291) series and since then, it's all I can think about. I've never written anything this fast. I never really cared much about Dean/John before, but now I'm ruined for good.
> 
> Dean's sixteen here. Title taken from Music To Watch Boys To by Lana Del Rey.

 

He wakes up to a hand stroking his thigh. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to his surroundings and the cloudy haze in his sleep-foggy mind to disappear, and only then he sees it’s Dad’s, strong and big. His wide palm covers the rip in his jeans and the cut underneath, caused by the claws of the werewolf they shot maybe a couple hours ago.

“We’re here,” Dad says, his fingertips rubbing over the inner seam of the blood-stained denim covering Dean’s skin. Dean yawns, stretches a little in the Impala’s seat. Dad's hand remains on his thigh, warm and firm.

“Neat shot, boy,” he says, squeezing Dean’s thigh firmly, just once. “Didn’t waste no silver bullets either.”

Dean tears his gaze away from Dad’s hand on the washed-out denim of his jeans and looks up at him, finding those dark eyes on him. The interior lights of the car are off, the only light in here coming from the flickering lamp by the porch, but the approval is clear in his eyes, and Dean feels his cheeks glowing, his chest swelling with pride. He swallows, tries to find his voice, his mouth and throat still dry from sleep.

“Thanks, Dad,” he manages. His voice sounds hoarse. He coughs a little, swallows again.

The engine’s already turned off, but Dad doesn't take the key out of the ignition, doesn't get out of the car, so Dean waits, too. Waits for Dad to say something more, something else. To point out something Dean had overlooked during the hunt, maybe, reprimand him for a reckless move he made or precautions he failed to take. Dad’s hand is still resting on his thigh, holding him in place, and he’s still looking at him, too, in a way that makes Dean unable to properly replay the hunt in his head, to analyze what he could’ve missed, what he should have done differently.

“Dad,” he says, pushing a little, unable to stand the silence, the fear of failure, and Dad must be able to read it straight off his face, because he grins, shakes his head. He draws back his hand from Dean’s thigh and grabs the house keys, hands them to Dean.

“Good job, kiddo. Now go check on Sammy. I’ll bring our bags inside.” 

 

~

 

They’d killed a werewolf under the full moon in Virginia, Minnesota, about two hundred miles north of the house they’ve been staying in over the past month. _He_ had killed it. He’s still gleaming with pride as he stands in the doorway of the bedroom he shares with Sam, watching his baby brother sleep, safe and sound. He wants to tell Sam about how he killed the thing, can’t wait to see Sammy’s mouth falling open with astonishment, his eyes going wide with big-brother adoration, but it’s past midnight and he’s not gonna wake him up.

He hears Dad walking up the creaky stairs with heavy steps. Sam stirs a little, nestles himself in the blankets like a puppy, tugging them up to his nose. “You’re safe, Sammy,” Dean whispers. _You don’t have to be afraid anymore. I killed the damn thing for you._

Dad stands behind him in the doorway, rests a hand on his shoulder.

“He asleep?”

Dean nods. The window in their room has no curtains and the light of the full moon falls through, illuminating the top of his sleeping brother’s face and the mop of dark blond hair sprawling all over the pillow. Dad squeezes his shoulder, then slides his hand down his back.

“Go shower, kiddo. I’ll make us some sandwiches.”

 

~

 

There’s a plate of ham and cheese sandwiches on the coffee table when Dean walks into the living room in his boxer shorts and his Dad’s washed-out, too-big gray tee that he uses as a sleeping shirt. He flops down onto the old fake-leather couch, the material cold against his bare legs. He turns the tv on, but just like the last time, there’s nothing but static. He switches it back off, stares at the blank screen as he starts on his sandwiches. Dad said they won’t stay here for too long anyway, but Dean didn’t ask how long exactly _not too long_  is.

He enrolled in school here, just like Sam, but Dad has taken him on a couple of hunts over the past month, and he’s skipped more days than he actually went to school. Sam’s been more than a little pissed about that— mad at Dad for making Dean miss out on knowledge and skills Sam thinks he needs, mad at Dean for leaving him behind. And Dean _hates_ to leave Sammy behind, he really does, but to hunt by Dad’s side, Dad needing him to get a job done— he doesn’t think Sam understands just how much that means to him.

Dad walks into the living room, two cans of beer in his hand. He hands one to Dean. It’s not often that Dad offers him a beer, and it’s making him feel warm and fuzzy inside before he’s even cracked it open.

Dad sits down next to him, the couch dipping with his weight. He smells a little like beer already, must’ve had one while Dean was showering.

“You want?” Dean asks, offering his plate to Dad, but Dad gives him a crooked smile, shakes his head.

“Those’re all yours, kiddo, already had some.”

Dad cracks open his beer, takes a big gulp. Dean finishes another sandwich, starts on the last one, hungrier than he thought he was now that the adrenaline has started to wear off.

Dad’s just staring at the blank tv screen while he drinks. He never talks much about hunts. He never talks much at all, but that’s okay with Dean. It’s good to just sit by Dad’s side, to feel his presence big and warm and solid beside him.

Dean opens his beer, too, takes a first, bitter swig, still not really used to it. Dad grins as he tries not to make a face at the taste, then rests his hand on Dean’s bare thigh again, below the cut the werewolf left with its claw. It’s not too cold in the room, despite the heating not working very well. Dean’s shivering a little anyway, even though he feels all warm inside, the way he gets when adrenaline spikes up, the way he felt just before he fired that silver bullet.

Dean takes another sip of his beer, feelING as if he needs it even though he’s not sure what for. Dad’s rubbing his thumb just below the cut. More heat pooling in his stomach, more shivers running down his back. There’s barely any blood welling up from the wound, and it doesn’t really hurt or sting, not the way it did when Dean disinfected it, but his belly clenches anyway.

“Don’t think this needs stitching,” Dad says eventually, as if he wouldn’t already have noticed if stitches were necessary back in the car.

Dad usually doesn’t touch him much, but he’s always touched him more than he touched Sam. Touched him in different ways, too— a squeeze to his side, a pat on his thigh or a slap to his butt, whereas with Sammy, he’d only ever lay a hand on his shoulder or ruffle his already messy hair. And Dean isn’t imagining things, because Sammy said so, too.

Dad’s hand is still resting on his thigh, thumb still rubbing slowly. Dean lets himself sink deeper into the couch, spreads his thighs a little, but Dad’s hand remains where it is. Dean takes a big gulp of his beer, the liquid adding to the fuzzy feeling in his stomach. He rests the can on his other thigh, the aluminum cold against his burning skin.

 _It’s because you’re prettier,_ Sam had said. _People look more at you, too._ He’s only twelve, and Dad doesn’t want to bring him along on hunts yet, but Dean’s sure he could be a great help. No one’s as observant as Sammy.

He finishes his last sandwich, puts the plate on the table, then takes another swig of his beer. When he licks his lips after, Dad's eyes come to a rest on his mouth, and _fuck_ — Dean no longer doubts what that look could mean, not after he’d seen the same hunger earlier tonight.

They’d stopped for gas on the way back. Dean had gone to take a leak while Dad stood by the pump as he waited for the tank to fill. When he came back from the bathroom, Dad was standing by the counter, waiting to pay.

Dean’s getting used to the way men look at him, but this time—

He’d seen the man on his way to the bathroom. A trucker, probably, around the same age as Dad, same dark hair, smile a little bit filthier as he walked past, and Dean wouldn’t have given him a single look if it wasn’t for the resemblance with his dad. Maybe he’d made eye contact a little too long, ‘cause when he was about to pass the man again as he made his way over to Dad, he asked _How much for that mouth, boy?_

Dean had felt his cheeks heating up, mouth running dry. He’d ignored the man, continued walking, acting as if nothing happened, and Dad couldn’t have heard, could he? But he rested a heavy hand on Dean’s shoulder as he waited for the attendant to hand him back his credit card, and Dean had felt the trucker’s eyes burning into his back until they'd left the shop.

“What are you thinking about, boy?” Dad asks, his voice low but soft. He’s not staring at his lips anymore, his eyes firmly fixed on Dean’s now. His hand is still resting on Dean’s bare thigh, not stroking, not pressing, just there.

“Still wrapped up in that hunt?”

Dean shakes his head, takes another sip of beer. The can’s only half empty, but he feels light-headed already.

“No,” he says, eyes glancing back to Dad's  hand on his bare skin, “it’s nothing,” but the tremble in his voice and the color he feels seeping into his cheeks must give him away, because Dad grins and brings a hand up to his face, lifts his chin, makes him look back up.

“What did that man say to you, Dean?”

 _What_ _man_ , he wants to say, but he knows he can’t feign the confusion, feels himself blushing bright red already.

“Nothing,” he rasps, but Dad isn’t fooled. He probably heard the man, anyway, there’s no reason for him to ask. Dean takes a nervous gulp of his beer, tries to keep the muscles in his thigh from quivering under Dad’s hand.

“Tell me, Dean,” Dad demands anyway, voice dropping, and Dean feels himself shudder.

“He asked— he wanted—” he stammers, still hasn’t made up his mind about whether to tell the full truth. Dad’s talking more than he usually is, and Dean doesn’t know what to make of it. He’s learned to take what he can get from Dad, but tonight, it’s adding up fast. Three compliments, he can recall them perfectly— _neat shot, boy, didn’t waste no silver bullets, good job, kiddo_ — and also more touches in one night than Sammy got in two weeks. He’s learned to be satisfied with what he can get, even though deep down, it’s never enough. And now, all of a sudden, it seems so much, like it’s right there for the taking, almost too good to be true.

He wants all of it, wants it so bad. There’s so _much_ he wants, so many different things, and there’s only one person who can give him all of them, or make him lose them all, and he really can’t fuck this up. He drains his beer in a couple big gulps, drops the empty can, lets it roll into the corner of the couch.

“He asked if he— if I wanted—” he starts, but he just can’t get the words past his lips. It’s pathetic, how he’s always so bold when it comes to talking about sex when he’s bragging about it to Sammy, but with Dad, he’s as shy and embarrassed as a virgin.

Dad draws his hand back from Dean’s thigh, places it under his chin. He lifts Dean’s face up, makes him look him in the eyes.

“Something I should know about, boy?” he asks, his voice so low and dark, gaze dropping from Dean’s eyes back to his lips.

“Dad,” he says helplessly, needs him to know that he has never— “I didn’t— I didn’t wanna—”

Dad grins at his stammering, doesn’t push him to finish his sentences. Instead, he shifts a little, grabs Dean’s hips and tugs him closer, wraps his arms below Dean’s butt and pulls him into his lap. Dean’s bare thighs are splayed wide on either side of Dad's, the cut left by the werewolf stinging a little at the stretch. The fake leather of the couch sticks to his sweaty skin where his knees and shins dig into it.

 _Getting too big to sit in my lap like this, boy,_ he remembers Dad saying when he’d just turned twelve. _Getting too pretty, too._ Back then, he couldn’t figure out what Dad meant, but when he sees the way men look at him these days, he thinks he finally understands.

Dad takes his face in his hands, big, warm palms against his already too-hot cheeks. _He’s looking at me like he used to look at Mom_ , Dean thinks, knowing that if Mom would still be alive, there’s no way he’d be sitting in Dad’s lap like this right now. Everything about that thought aches and he pushes it away, doesn’t want to think about what could’ve been, not when he finally feels like he’s so close to getting the one thing he wants that  _isn't_ impossible.

Dad brushes a rough, callused thumb over his lower lip and Dean’s lips part as if on autopilot. Dean sees the corners of his mouth curving up, hears his heavy breathing. He fists his hands in Dad’s shirt as he realizes he’s chubbing up in his boxers, doesn’t know where to look or what to do or say. This goes by the rules of Dad’s book.

“Did he ask you to use this pretty mouth of yours on him, boy?”

Dean chokes on a _yes_ , wants to hide his face in Dad's neck, but Dad’s hands are firm around his cheeks, holding him in place. 

“You ever done something like that, Dean?”

Dean swallows hard at the thought, whispers _no_ , forcing himself to keep looking Dad in the eyes. He can’t have Dad thinking he would go down on his knees for random men, that he would let them use him, just like that.

“How about girls, then,” Dad continues, his voice sounding a little teasing. His hands slide down to Dean’s shoulders and close around his upper arms. He pushes Dean back a little, holds him at an arm’s length, studying him. “You make ‘em scream, boy?”

“ _Dad_ ,” Dean croaks, embarrassment and excitement mixing in the pit of his stomach. Despite what he likes to make Sammy believe, he’s not _that_ good with girls. He’s never fully focused on making them feel good, always thinking about the things he can’t have. Always thinking about what _Dad_ would think if he’d see Dean at it— whether he’d be proud, or snicker at his inexperience. Whether he’d let his eyes roam all over Dean’s naked body while he’d pound into the girl. If he’d want to join. Or if, maybe, he’d want to have Dean all to himself.

Dad slides his hands back up, broad, callused palms rough against the tender skin of his neck, taking his face in his hands.

“My beautiful boy,” he murmurs, stroking his thumbs over Dean’s lips, across his cheekbones. Dean feels himself growing harder and _god_ , Dad must feel it too, now, the press of it against his stomach, but there’s no sign of it on his face, no sharp remark leaving his lips. Dean does what he’s always done, waits for an order, or a green light at the very least, but Dad just _looks_ , eyes shifting from his eyes to his lips, down to his throat. Dean’s heart is hammering in his chest and he’s sure his pulse must be visible in his neck, clear for Dad to see. He feels wide open, like Dad could read everything off his face, and he’s as willing as he can be, sitting in Dad’s lap with his dick hard in his boxers and his clammy hands grabbing at Dad’s shirt, but all Dad does is look, taking his fill.

“ _Dad_ ,” Dean says again, barely more than a whisper, but Dad catches the needy tone of it, his lips quirking into a smirk.

“What do you want, Dean,” he murmurs, his fingers still stroking Dean’s face.

 _Just_ _you_ , Dean wants to say. There’s only one person whose approval he craves like this, only one person who can make him feel so safe, whose love and affection he wants more than anything. Only one person who can give him exactly what he needs.

“Dad, _please_ ,” Dean mutters, not even sure what exactly he’s asking for, but Dad leans in, rubs his thumb over Dean’s mouth, and Dean catches the dark twinkle in his eyes before he feels Dad’s lips on his.

Dean melts into him, twists his hands tighter into his shirt, holding himself close to his broad, strong chest. It’s so overwhelming he barely knows what to do, but he opens his mouth eagerly, lets Dad inside. He hears himself sighing happily as his dad wraps a strong arm around his waist, kissing him hard and firm, the way Dean always imagined he would, his stubble rough against Dean’s face. Dad pulls him even closer, making him whimper into his mouth. Dean can’t keep his hips still, his hard, leaking dick rubbing against Dad’s crotch, and he thinks he can feel—

“Christ, kiddo,” Dad says as he pulls away, his hands settling on Dean’s hips, slowing him down. “Look at you.” His eyes are darker than Dean’s ever seen, and for a moment, he fears that it’s a demon in there, that it isn’t his dad who wants him like this, but then Dad leans in again and kisses him again, softer than he had before.

“God, look at you,” he says when he pulls back, sounding a bit astounded, and Dean’s not sure what exactly he sees, not sure if he even wants to know.

“Dad,” he whispers, grabs his dad’s hand, finally daring to place it on the swell of his dick, “I want it so bad.”

His dad grunts, rubs his palm against Dean’s dick, and Dean feels himself leaking already.

“Christ, boy,” Dad murmurs as he pulls Dean's boxers down, takes his dick out. He wraps his hand around it and Dean almost comes straight at the touch and the sight of it, his dad’s large, broad hand covering his dick completely. Dad places his other hand on the back of Dean’s head and tugs his face closer, holds him firmly pressed to his chest while he jerks him just right. Dean breathes in the familiar smell of him, skin, dirt, sweat and aftershave blending together into the safest smell he's ever known. Dad’s murmuring into his hair, _my boy, my beautiful boy_ , holding him so close, and Dean wants it to last forever, but Dad starts rubbing his thumb over the head of his dick, murmurs _doing so good for me, Dean_ and then Dean's coming, just like that, spurting all over his dad’s fist, his body shaking and clenching in Dad’s grip as he strokes him through it.

He slumps against Dad and Dad holds him close, lets Dean worm his hands under his shirt and touch his bare skin. Dean feels him pressing rock-hard against his butt, making a sick sort of pride well up in his chest. Dad doesn’t do anything about it, just strokes  Dean’s hair, lets Dean take what he wants.

After a while, he pulls back a little. His hands are tight around Dean’s upper arms, making him sit up straight. He doesn’t say anything, just looks, but his words from earlier echo through Dean’s head. _My beautiful boy_. He wonders if Dad sees his mom when he looks at him.

Mary’s been dead for the bigger part of his life. He’s not sure he’d remember her face if it wasn’t for the pictures Dad kept. She never saw him grow up, never knew the boy he’d become. He should be ashamed, maybe, for the thoughts in his head, for the things he wants, but he knows it wouldn’t have been like this if she hadn’t died. If she’d still be here, he wouldn’t have needed Dad the way he does now. Dad wouldn’t have wanted _him_ like this, he’s sure. They wouldn’t have been hunting. Sam and he wouldn’t have to switch schools so much, and they’d both have their own group of friends. They would live a normal life.

Sam’s still full of blame, Dean knows. And more than the thing that killed Mom, he blames Dad for dragging them into this. And if he knew about all the sick things Dean wants, he’d blame Dad for that, too.

Dad pulls him in again, kisses his forehead, holds him to his chest.

Mom would blame Dad, too, he’s sure, and the thought makes him feel weirdly defensive. He shakes the feeling off; the thought doesn’t make sense— Mom’s _dead_ , she can’t blame anyone, and if she’d still be alive, nothing would have happened, and there’d be no one to blame.

Dad— Dad still blames whatever killed Mom for leaving their family deprived. But _this_ , the way Dean is sitting in his lap, slowly rocking against his hard cock while Dad strokes his hair, murmuring _my sweet boy_ against the top of his head—

Dean knows Dad good enough to know he’d blame no one but himself.

Dean doesn’t blame anyone. If he gets to have this— his dad’s love and approval, the comfort of his arms around him, making him feel wanted, loved, safe— that’s more than he dared to hope for. Even if they find the thing that killed Mom, even if they can take revenge, it will not fill the hole in his heart. They will never get their mom back. Revenge will not heal Dad, either. It will never be like it was before, and maybe Dad and Sam can’t accept that, but Dean— Dean can. He has _this_ , now, and he knows it’s the closest he’ll get to feeling whole again.

   


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I might actually continue this and make a series out of it. Let me know what you think. I'm also still looking for a beta - I'm not a native speaker and right now, it's taking me ages to make sure there's not too many errors. You can find me on [tumblr](http://www.saintedevote.tumblr.com) if you're interested. Also please come share your John/Dean headcanons with me <3


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